Mechanism
by Shattered Equilibrium
Summary: It was like an intimate autopsy. Pale fingers ghosted over the bruises decorating Dean's ribs in an abstract painting. The mottled blues and purples and reds discolouring lightly freckled skin, the older ones beneath them fading out to the yellows, browns, and sickly greens. Castiel traced every single one.


If there was one place Dean felt truly at peace, it was the far back corner of the bus. Route 29, to be specific. A bus that had gradually become more familiar to him than his own home, a safe haven to hide in when everything was so disappointingly wrong. Tucked away in the corner on an uncomfortable seat fitted with worn, stained fabric that had seen better days, Dean was free to let his guard down. He could see everything and everyone around him, and it was the only seat that didn't leave him feeling trapped or uneasy with the possibility of someone sneaking up behind him. In the far back corner at half past midnight, Dean could afford to let himself relax, something he wouldn't normally ever allow himself to do, especially at home. Route 29 was his salvation on these late nights. The bus so often empty save for him at this late hour, the driver played as his personal chauffeur.

Dean circled the route so often, the drivers had given up on trying to kick him off after just a few months. They would tell him that a kid his age shouldn't be out so late, tell him to go home one night only to find him back the next. He'd take up the same seat in the same corner, where he would ride full circuit three or four times before eventually getting off right back where he started.

With a hood drawn up and eyes cast down, Dean made a point of never making eye contact with the drivers as he swiped his bus pass. He feared that if he did, they would have questions he wouldn't be able to answer.

Nearly unheard of late at night, there would be another passenger or two on board. Either some poor sap getting off the late shift from a fast food joint, or a couple love sick teenagers too caught up in each other to notice just how disgusting they really were. This was one of those nights, where Dean's salvation was unwillingly shared with another. When the old bus rolled to a stop with a wheeze of brakes to allow the new passenger to board, he slouched a little more and tugged his hood down just a little bit further obscure his face. A feeble attempt but an attempt none the less to block out the world. Truthfully, he was hiding.

The laboured drag of the doors stuttering open and shut, the coins clinking into the fare box, the soft footfalls as the new passenger made his way to a seat. Dean's eyes never strayed from the dashed lines on the road, even as the stranger ventured ever closer. Gracefully he fell into the corner seat opposite Dean even as the ancient tin can lurched forward in a way that made Dean's stomach turn over. Despite feeling as though his space had been invaded upon, and despite the fact that Dean had a few choice words dancing on the tip of his tongue, he decided to bite them back and ignore him.

Several more stops were drifted past, the driver not bothering to actually stop for the bodies not present. Dean's eyes drifted over lonely street lamps illuminating the graffitied benches and weed cracked sidewalks. The lights were out in every window of every house they passed, because no self respecting person was awake at this hour on a Thursday. Not in this small town. Those few that were still alive among the dead, such as Dean and his pseudo companion, were often regarded as troublemakers that were up to no good. On occasion, that assumption wasn't far off the mark.

"Do you believe in Angels?"

The question caught Dean off guard, though he didn't have to look to know it was directed to him. His brows knit themselves together, but that didn't stop the question from plaguing his mind. Giving it a moment to mull over in his head, he realized that truth be told, he'd never really given it much thought. Angels, God, Heaven, the whole shebang. As a child, his mother had always said that Angels were watching over him, but there just wasn't time for such childish, blind faith anymore. A lazy half-shrug was offered for lack of a better response, though it seemed to be enough. There was a hum of acknowledgement, but the stranger said nothing else to him. The bus carried on in their silence, rattling over every dip and pot hole in the road that was in desperate need of re-paving and had been long overdue for some years now.

Too soon, Dean recognized his surroundings, identifying them as his neighbourhood. The beautiful suburban homes with the manicured lawns all too familiar and too full of lies. He was no stranger to the pain and the secrets that lurked behind the portrait of perfection painted on every doorstep.

He tugged the cord to request the stop, perhaps a with a little more force than necessary, his expression bitter and posture stiff. It was time to bid Route 29 farewell for the night, only to return back to the pit of hell he called home. Dean swung himself from his seat while the sad, old slug of a bus rolled to a screeching stop that made him wince. He shouldered past the struggling doors, offering a courtesy wave to the driver as he stepped out to the curb. With his hood still hiding the majority of his face, it took him a few scuffed steps to realize he wasn't alone. Angel-boy had stepped off with him.

The bus pulled away with a plume of suffocating exhaust, leaving the two strangers to face off in its wake. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets to ward off the early November cold as he studied the others' shoes, wondering why he wasn't walking away. Dean didn't feel comfortable with turning his back to a stranger, but at the same time he was unwilling to strike up any kind of conversation, even if it was to ask just who this guy thought he was. There was silence again, broken only by the occasional chirp of a cricket or the soft breeze churning the dying leaves in the trees overhead.

"May I walk with you?"

Dean shrugged again, turning away without a word. Angel-boy followed, never more than half a step behind as Dean watched him warily from the corner of his eye.

The silence trailed them, the scuffs of their shoes over the uneven pavement providing the makeshift beat to their march. Not a word was passed between them, but somehow Dean felt that there didn't need to be. For once, there was a silence that was almost comfortable rather than foreboding and full of bone chilling promise.

At that hour, time meant little. The well known fear threatening to knot itself in Dean's stomach was easily ignored. The only thing that mattered at that very moment was the shoulder that occasionally bumped his own, the lack of personal space somehow a comfort in the dark.

Feet guided Dean unwillingly to the end of the driveway that led to he house he'd always known, one that had long since seen a smile or even an ounce of happiness. The familiarity of it did nothing to make him feel welcome there. He stopped, eyes trained on the filthy, scuffed boots he'd worn every day since his feet stopped growing. The laces were frayed and his socks got soaked when it rained, the soles having long since started to peel away like used band-aids. If one thing could be said for them though, it was their comfort. Dean could walk for miles in those boots. Some nights he had.

"Castiel."

For a second time that night, Dean's brows met one another. _Castiel?_ It took longer than he would ever admit to realize that was being offered a name. Angel-boy's name. It was odd, but fitting given nickname he had received. Dean liked it. A name like that sounded strong, though it occurred to him that the name itself didn't have a picture to go with it. Not once had Dean bothered to see the face of his new found companion and the realization made him uneasy. For as long as he could remember, Dean had always made sure to be aware of his surroundings, the cost of ignoring them being far too steep for him to afford to pay.

His gaze peeled from ratty boots, trailing over well worn jeans and a flannel too light for the chill in the air. They traced along a sharp jaw and pail skin, landing on eyes he couldn't see the colour of reflecting what little light there was provided by the clear night sky. The lack of light didn't make Castiel's gaze any less powerful.

He was waiting. Waiting for Dean to provide a name, something that Dean didn't often do if it could be at all avoided. This was different, though. This seemed safe. His hands never left his pockets while his name drifted past his lips in an easy puff of condensation.

Another hum. A soft twitch of the lips which could almost pass as a smile.

"Sleep well, Dean."

Dean stepped away first, feeling novice to any form of social behaviour. He trekked around the side of the house, not even making a show of approaching the front door. His boots on the porch would only make noise. When he approached his desired window near the rear of the house, he guided it open along the track with the same care as one who handled live explosives. One boot planted firmly against the siding, Dean gripped the sill to lift himself up to the ledge.

He slipped through the window into the laundry room with a stealth he possessed only when terrified. Despite having done this countless times before, it never got any easier. There were no sounds save for the soft drags of fabric along the sill, but even that was deafening to his ears when there was so much on the line. Dean all but drifted to the floor, toeing off his boots immediately for fear of their hard soles on the linoleum giving him away.

Boots gripped tight in his hand, god forbid he drop one, he tiptoed with caution along the hall to the stairs; the whole house was a minefield. He passed the living room where his father lay passed out on the couch, right where he had left him, though he dared not breathe a sigh of relief, not yet. Dean was still far from being in the clear.

The stairs. One at a time, just like every time before. The stairs were the easy part, but somehow they always pitched Dean right into a pit of anxiety more than anything else.

He crept along, skipping over the fourth stair entirely, knowing it would creek obnoxiously beneath his weight. Through the entire ascension, Dean held his breath. He hoped for the best but anticipated the worst. The worst is usually what found him. Not until he reached the haven of his room did he release that breath.

Tonight, Dean was lucky. Tonight he was safe.

Weeks passed where Castiel would ride the bus with Dean, moving from the seat in the opposite corner to the ever vacant one next to him. Sometimes, Cas would speak and Dean would listen, but often they would simply ride in a comfortable silence. Some nights, brushing thighs would give way to tangled fingers when Cas knew Dean needed it, though neither ever commented on it.

Cas always walked Dean home.

He was the closest thing to a friend that Dean had, which is why he barely gave it a second thought when Cas offered him cocaine. It was something he'd always wanted to try, but had never gotten around to despite the opportunities having presented themselves numerous times before.

Breathing in lines off the table was a difficult art form, though initial sting and Dean's own sloppiness were more than made up for with the high that followed. With confidence high and heart beat strong, Dean felt on top of the world. It didn't take much to persuade Cas to venture outside with him, to experience the night in a haze of adrenalin. Barefoot in the cold, the last drags of November having faded away, they strolled down the middle of the road. Every time Dean felt his high wearing thin, Cas would provide him with another hit from his palm, praising him when he took it eagerly.

When the urge struck, Dean guiltlessly broke windows, slashed tires, kicked down mail boxes. Whenever lights flicked on inside peoples homes, he and Castiel would run, fingers tangled together, afraid to lose each other in the dark. The hid in bushes, giggling like children behind their hands. Carefree.

John had his fist clamped just above Dean's elbow to keep him from running while he landed strike after strike across already battered flesh. Despite the drink he could smell on his breath, Dean knew he was no match against his father, or the hands he beat him with. He knew better than to try and fight back, just like he knew he would never receive a bruise where it could be seen. Always hidden, covered up like a secret.

This night was no different from any other. The words were always the same, the reasons never changing for why he deserved this. A disappointment. A failure. He could never hope to be a man in the eyes of his father, not since the accident that had taken the lives of his mother and brother.

Where were the Angels then?

Another fist came sailing down, making contact with his ribs. His father's yells, his accusations, they were enough to drown out the whimpers and soft cries that slipped past Dean's lips. He knew better than to scream. He kept his eyes clamped tightly shut, as though he could block out the blows that coloured him new shades of violet and indigo.

He may not have faith in Angels, but Dean's personal Hell was all too real.

They sat apart in the loft of the barn they had been visiting for months, long since abandoned since a new one had been built on the property. It was a new hiding place for the both of them, one Dean hoped they never got around to tearing it down, whoever they were.

A stray piece of straw had drifted onto the blankets they had stashed in the loft ages ago, and Dean found himself twisting it between his fingers. He was distancing himself, hurting too much both inside and out for the contact he knew Castiel wanted. It didn't stop him from moving closer, invading Dean's personal space. Boundaries didn't seem to exist with Cas.

A hand brushed his side that made Dean hiss, jerking away from the touch. Castiel's eyes were scrutinizing him, tearing down the walls effortlessly as though they were nothing more than paper taped to his skin. Dean wondered briefly when he first noticed Castiel's eyes were blue.

"Show me."

Not a question; an order. Dean understood orders. While his lack of hesitation should have surprised him, it appeared as though nothing regarding Castiel could or did surprise him anymore. Dean pushed his flannel to the side to lift the hem of the plain shirt he wore beneath it without a second thought. He didn't get far before he felt hands on his shoulders guiding him back, laying him down on the floor. He went without protest, his arms raising to rest by his head to give Cas all the room he needed.

It was like an intimate autopsy. Pale fingers ghosted over the bruises decorating Dean's ribs in an abstract painting. The mottled blues and purples and reds discolouring lightly freckled skin, the older ones beneath them fading out to the yellows, browns, and sickly greens. Castiel traced every single one. Those same fingers continued to push Dean's shirt away, revealing more and more skin and bruise after bruise in the wake of the retreating fabric. They extended along his torso, curled around his sides, his hips, his chest. Cas didn't have to ask to know those same fist-sized bruises littered his back just as thoroughly, or perform the Y-cut to know they went deeper than the skin they'd marked.

Dean closed his eyes to the soft touches, breath coming in soft and shallow beneath the wandering fingers as he tried with every fibre of his being to resist flinching away. Delicate fingers soon gave way to velvet lips, every muscle tensing beneath them, but Dean didn't dare open his eyes. To see it would break the illusion, and a gentle touch wasn't something he was willing to give up so soon.

Lips traced where fingers had, brushed over every bruise, outlined every discolouration with kisses meant to heal. Cas was the doctor, kissing away the hurt, the pain, the suffering, tearing him apart just to piece him back together in a way only Angels knew how.

Maybe Castiel was an Angel after all.

Dean wasn't sure if it was love they made that night, or if they had simply indulged in drowning in one another. Regardless, he could never bring himself to regret it. He could never regret time spent with Cas, or even the fresh bruises he had been marked with. The discolouration provided by previously delicate fingers digging into his thighs, dragging him ever closer, or the evidence of teeth pulling at the skin around his collarbones. His favourite had to be the very prominent hand print on his shoulder, where Cas had gripped him in his ecstasy.

Idly Dean traced them all in his mind, having studied them in the bathroom mirror when they had returned home. He found himself in love with every one of them.

After that, days without Cas washed past in grey scale, dragging on ways that made the clock's hands travel backwards, their faces distort. Time without Cas was like time spent not breathing, and Dean couldn't recall exactly when he began to feel that way. It made him shake when he wasn't cold, gasp for air when he wasn't winded. Never before had he needed, had he craved. Not like this. Castiel was freedom. Air. Life. Without him, without that whisper of a promise that he would return, Dean was sure he would waste away to nothing. Become nothing.

Dean would wait for Cas until time itself stopped, making the clocks stand still. Then he would wait just a little longer. Cas was the high he needed, and he could wait for that.

"Do you understand _'escape velocity'_?"

He didn't. The term was familiar enough, though where he may have heard it before was beyond him. But that's where his understanding ended. No amount of time spent pondering it would enable him to provide any decent kind of answer, so he didn't process the question any further. Cas seemed to sense his decision and offered up the definition easily.

"It is the speed needed to break free of gravitational attraction."

The silence stretched on between them, not for the first time. Often, Dean found himself without words after Cas spoke, as though his comments, his questions, were too far beyond his spectrum to provide any decent response. Not that he didn't want to discuss the insights Cas so easily presented to him, but rather he simply never knew what to say. Dean was never one for words. It was far easier to remain quiet and let others do the talking, just as he always had.

"You don't deserve what he's put on you, Dean."

His breath hitched, caught in his throat. Time slowed, the Earth, for but a few moments, stood perfectly still.

He couldn't remember the last time he had cried so hard.

They were high. On life, on cocaine, on simply the air in their lungs. High as kites, and nothing could drag them down. They'd stolen a car. Hot wired by Dean, though Cas did the driving, claiming Dean was too fucked up to sit behind the wheel. Cas was usually right. Dean had half a mind to ask him to drive into a lamp post, just to see what it would feel like. He bit his tongue until it bled a little.

The drove for what felt like ages, though the clock on the dash claimed it to be little more than ten minutes. The car skidded to a halt on the weathered road, parked on an angle across the yellow line. Cas offered a snow covered palm to Dean who eagerly accepted the high. Fingers combed and gripped his hair, palm pressed against his nose while soft murmurs of praise drifted over his ears as he inhaled.

Cas took another hit himself, and there they sat as the high set in again, renewing itself. Sprawled in the car as they were, Dean was comfortable, despite the ever present sting.

With a sudden burst of energy, Cas threw open the door and all but vibrated in the seat. With one foot out the door, he turned to look at Dean for a brief moment, leaning in, the interior light of the car glinting off his grin.

"Come with me."

It was a blur, a mess of thoughts as they all but fell from the car, and Dean could have sworn he heard himself laughing. He was so far past caring, past acknowledging just how stupid they really were, that the possibility of being arrested the next day was a very sound reality. It was a miracle they got here alive at all. He wasn't about to let something like the law bring him down, laws that failed him on countless occasions in the past. This was a night of freedom and he was going to take it.

Ahead of him he could see the outline that was Cas, half running in a jagged, unsynchronized manner down the timeworn road, somehow missing all the divots and loose gravel along the way. When he reached the bridge ahead, Dean could hear the hollow thump of each footfall, amplified by the darkness surrounding them. The half moon provided just enough light for them to see by, but Dean didn't need the light to catch the wild grin Cas threw back at him. He could feel it beneath his skin, an exciting rush of adrenalin that pushed him forward.

His body was on autopilot. He watched in fascination as Cas wrapped his pale hands around the rail, throwing a leg over and pulling himself after it to the other side in one of those graceful movements Dean was so fond of. With pupils blown and that wild grin still in place, he looked back at Dean, encouraging him to do the same. As always, without question, Dean obliged.

Standing next to Cas on the tiny ledge, back to the rail, something somewhere deep in the haze of his mind became marginally aware of his fear of heights. His white knuckled grasp on the rail behind him was beginning to feel like it wasn't quite enough to keep him from falling, from tumbling off the edge.

"This is _our_ escape velocity."

The speed needed to break free. The small jolt of recognition sobered him a little then. A small fragment of truth spread out on the vast amounts of nothing licking at the toes of his well worn boots. All it would take is a step. One single step.

Dean's eyes never wavered from the empty space beneath him. As though he sensed his fear, Cas reached a hand out to Dean. It was an offer he gladly took in an iron grip, despite that it meant one hand off the rail. Cas was safe. An Angel wouldn't let him fall.

"Don't be afraid, Dean. Angels can fly. I've got you."

An Angel wouldn't let him fall.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be real."

Dean let go.


End file.
